


The Long Shadow of Death

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M, Horror, Illnesses, Implied Relationships, M/M, Original Character(s), Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty has become Death itself but there are a few strings attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gunman

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to all the beautiful death!Jim and for Feyuca, whom I must blame for this new obsession.

Jim was the sort that could be incredibly quiet. He could be so innocuous. He would slide into a cafe, plant a bomb, and slither out. By the time it went off, he could be miles away. He was innocuous like cancer--he was a palpable threat, and people did fear him, but they never saw him coming. _Lub-dub_ , their hearts went in their chests, _lub-dub_ , at his mere mention. He genuinely enjoyed his trade, for instead of being a merchant a death--he had become Death.

It was some time before he actually became Death itself. He had played his cards right, pulled the right strings, pressed the right entities--but eventually he knew the perfect way to defeat Sherlock Holmes.

It was sometimes a tedious, easy job.

Jim would powder his bright blue nose, smear rouge on his pale cheeks, and put on a light lipstick to mask his purple lips. Throughout the day, into the night, he would prowl the streets. With a hand on a shoulder and a slow, drawn whisper, he would announce his presence and be gone. This is all it usually took amongst the ailing and the elderly. Hours later, they would slump over, succumbing to their arrhythmia, their cancer, their diabetes, and all the mundane little illnesses that plagued them.

Naturally, Jim was bored. Oh, it had its charm at first. Slinking around and just tapping someone and knowing that they were going to die later was incredibly empowering, not that he needed to feel empowered. What made him angry, angry in that he hadn't realized it sooner, was that he couldn't kill anyone he wanted. There were rules--and by virtue, or lack of virtue, he made it a personal goal to break and bend those--that could not be broken. Even though he could kill hundreds, thousands, even millions of people he could never mark them. It was already pre-ordained, who was to die and who was approaching death. To his knowledge, there was only one entity who controlled the marking and he most definitely wasn't on the right side to get in favour with him.

Sherlock Holmes had survived his little fall from the roof of Bart's. It didn't shock Jim, oh no, not in the least. He would have been a bit disappointed if Sherlock _hadn't_ lived. But that did leave him in a tight place.

He needed an outside-man. Someone who could touch Sherlock Holmes.

No one ever expected Death to drive up in an Audi. They also didn't expect him to just walk in. He did just that, the tumblers of the flat's lock shifting with a soft click as he placed his hand upon it. When he opened the door, the smell of alcohol, cigarettes, and dirty laundry wafted out. He couldn't smell it, but he knew it was there for the empty bottles of whiskey, the full ashtrays, and the piles of clothes resting on the couch.

The piles of clothes were, in actuality, Sebastian Moran. He had drunkenly curled up there, not bothering to get a blanket.

"Oh," Jim breathed, breathlessly, "oh honey, you've gotten so slovenly since I left."

Sebastian stirred, looking at the speaker and blinking. It took him a few seconds to recognize him and to actually register what he was seeing. "What," his eyes shifted and narrowed, "no." He didn't move, instead he became rigid. "You're dead."

Jim filled his empty chest cavity and heaved a deep, fake sigh, which considering his lack of functioning lungs was an enormous feat. "Close, but no cigar." He put his hands behind his back to stop himself from touching the surfaces. Bad things happen when you come in contact with Death too often and he couldn't risk Sebastian doing that.

"You're dead." He croaked again, rubbing a bloodshot eye. It was almost amazing how many years had peeled off of Sebastian's life in the past year. He just drank them right away. Shame, really, considering that when he had been alive Sebastian was nearly always sober.

Jim rolled his eyes, "still hung up on that?"

Sebastian sunk into the couch, eyes darting for the door. "I heard the gunshot. Fuck, Jim, I saw you. You were laid out on that rooftop, skin like--" he blanched, "fuck, like milk; that pale, Jim. I think I saw bits of your brain up there," he was growing progressively more hysterical.

"What," he interrupted him, holding up a silencing hand. He quickly jerked it back, too afraid that they might touch, despite the distance. He couldn't possibly risk it. "What if I told you that I _did_ die and that instead of staying dead I," he ran his long tongue over his teeth, "what if I told you there was a change in management?"

Sebastian became silent after a time, seemingly sobering up. It was a thought that though strange, was probably just as surreal as dead Jim standing before him. He reached for the coffee table and Jim took a step back, still to afraid to taint him. "Don't act like him," Sebastian snorted, clamping a cigarette in his teeth and sneering. "All right then, if you're not some sort of hallucination. Prove it."

He seemed to be absolutely set on the idea that it was all a joke. Jim didn't take kindly to being laughed at.

"Oh love, I just put my make-up on." He responded softly, dangerously, lolling his neck.

Sebastian lit his cigarette and Jim could see a minute bit of his life being shaved off. "Then I'll assume you're a fucking fake," he let out a barking laugh, "in a bit I'll become a bit more awake and you'll just disappear." He laughed again, "god, talking to fucking hallucinations."

At that Jim's temper flared and he advanced, checking himself only when he stood directly across from him, still separated by the coffee table. "I can't touch you," he said smoothly, voice going slippery like an oil slick. The smoke caught in Sebastian's throat and he coughed. It was as though the smoke had congealed into what it essentially was--tar. He spat it up into his hand and looked up, eyes going wide.

Jim had drawn himself up to his full height, nearly eight feet tall. He loomed over the table, inching just as far as he dared, his grin widening and widening until his face looked cracked in half. His jaw popped free like that of a snake's and his eyes glossed over, a deep black--his pupils mere spots of white that darted like flies. "But I can get very close," his tongue circled his mouth, licking off the lipstick to reveal his lips--purple from cyanosis.

Sebastian Moran didn't have the time to scream because by the time he blinked it was over. Jim was back to his normal self, albeit with purple lips and black eyes, which slowly but surely became their usual cavernous, brown holes once again. They were quiet for a while until Sebastian slowly said, "don't ever, ever do that again."

Jim smiled, to which Sebastian shuddered, and answered, "I could have made it worse. Now that you're willing to cooperate, I'll definitely keep your request in mind."

He then spent the rest of the day detailing his plans to a slowly sobering Sebastian Moran, making sure to keep his distance and to sometimes leave the room or the flat entirely. Sebastian, by the end of the day, was beginning to show the side effects of an over-exposure to Death. His teeth were chattering and it seemed like his tan was being sapped out of him. His lips were tinged blue, as were the tips of his fingers and ears. It couldn't be avoided either; Jim could have called him up on a telephone, but that might end badly. Sometimes, his voice wouldn't even properly register--it became white noise or worse, it destroyed the device he was using. Almost all of his affairs had to be resolved in person. Humans were much more resilient to Death than their electronics, oddly enough.

They had both agreed that to get to Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian would have to eliminate everyone that kept him secret, kept him safe. It was amazing how few people actually cared about Sherlock Holmes, he counted on his fingers: Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, his landlady, Hudson, Gregory Lestrade, and one who had slipped from his mind completely--little Molly Hooper.

Sebastian looked absolutely drained, and that is when Jim realized it was time to go. He couldn't handle much more of his presence, let alone his voice. "Oh Seb," he whispered, letting his voice just hang in the silence of the flat as he left, "go after little Molly first. What a clever little mouse, I think you should poison her."


	2. The Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What infuriates Death the most is the Molly Hooper is young and in perfect health.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to hugely thank HolmesianDeduction, not only for beta-ing these chapters but also as a sounding-board and a constant help. You're a brilliant, brilliant writer and a great friend (and an unending source of advice). You truly are a magnificent bastard. <3

Molly Hooper, the pathologist of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, is a lovely, if not quite normal and invisible woman. She stands a diminutive five foot three inches and dresses herself in cute, comfortable clothing. The most remarkable fact about Molly is that she is not even in her mid-thirties and therefore Death cannot so much as come near her.

This infuriates Jim beyond belief. Especially considering that not too long ago, he was in more than touching distance (indeed, they had slept together) of her. Had he known then that little Molly Hooper would have executed such a brilliant task of 'reviving' Sherlock Holmes, he would have smothered her with her pillow or throttled her in the shower.

So naturally, he'd leave it to Seb.

The difficulties of assigning the task of killing Molly Hooper to Sebastian Moran is that, like all good snipers, his first response is to shoot a monstrous hole in her head. That doesn't suit Jim at all. When it comes to something as sly and sneaky as poisoning someone to death, Sebastian simply lacks finesse. He also lacks the expertise.

This is further complicated by the fact that Sebastian, though resilient, has taken a great blow from their afternoon together.

When Jim dropped by his flat, unlocking the door with a touch, he found that Sebastian was curled up in his bed. He looked unhealthy; the line of his back trailed with sweat, a large fan pointed directly on him. He was feverish and nauseous, and as soon as Jim entered the room, he retched into the garbage can by the bed.

He wasn't dying. He had just lost a great deal of his immune system and had obviously eaten something without washing his hands or whatever nasty human brutes do. He would have to come back later, when he had fully recovered from his overexposure. So he soundlessly left the flat and resumed his tedious task of taking Lives like flies on a web.

It took three long, boring weeks for Sebastian to recover; even then he was shaky. He sat on the couch, piled high with blankets, shivering whenever Jim lingered too close, teeth chattering. "Yeah, well if you have any better ideas. I have no idea where to get arsenic or, I dunno, anything really. It's all really obvious and she'd notice the signs right away." Sebastian let out a mighty sneeze and looked wretched.

"Hmm," Jim stalked about his apartment, no longer afraid of over-exposing him. It would happen anyway, despite all of his care he had still gotten ill. He noted, with a keen satisfaction, that Sebastian had cleaned for his presence. All the laundry lay in a basket, ready to be folded, and all the bottles and cans had been disposed of. The bags sat in the kitchen, ready to be taken out. "I want it to be slow and gradual."

The flat was silent save a leaky tap and Sebastian's sniffling. He checked the thermostat and found that the temperature had dropped drastically. He bumped it up with a nudge of his knuckle and when he turned back around, Sebastian had disappeared into the blankets. "What should I use?" He asked in a muffled voice, pausing to sneeze, "wait are you implying that I have to get in close to Ms. Hooper—again?"

Jim shifted his lack of weight from leg to leg. "Hmm, yes. I want to you date her. Slowly poison her. What didn't you catch of that in the first place?" When Sebastian didn't respond, he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Do it with lead. It would be easy, just little flecks of paint in her food and drinks--that would be the easiest. She'll get sick, probably blame it on the flu. Is flu season, after all. She'll get faintish, start getting headaches, stomach pain and fevers. Eventually, I'll just," he motioned a pinching, with his thumb and forefinger, "easy-peasy, honey."

He checked the clock on the wall, "Oh, I should be going. Stayed a bit long. Don't want you to get sick again." Jim gave him a flirty wink, "See you soon." He left behind a thick, viscous trail of black substance on the carpet that seeped in and marked the place: a territory of Death.

After that, Sebastian changed his wardrobe and his hair. It didn't take much to change his entire appearance, oddly enough. Despite his size, he had a quite forgettable face--something that Jim admired in his hired killers. He went from being tall, blond and sporty to tall, brunet and honestly, a bit metrosexual.

It didn't take Seb very long to learn Molly's routine either. Of course, that's what Sebastian was good at--hunting people down. He simply made sure to bump into her at the coffee shop she frequented. All it took was a bit of flirting and Seb was in a relationship with little Molly Hooper. She didn't recognize him at all.

It took several weeks for the effects to show up. Lead can be very innocuous, and a very effective poison. It takes only fifteen micrograms of lead per one-hundred twenty-five millimeters to begin to affect the adult human body.

It started with little aches and pains in her joints. They would lie together on the couch and Sebastian would rub circles on them, and she would comment, "oh, it must just be the weather." Her blood pressure rose steadily and coffee made her a bit sick. But still, she failed to notice. At this point, she was becoming anemic.

"You must be coming down with the flu," Sebastian told her, stirring in two sugars to her hot chamomile tea, "you should stay in bed." He kissed her behind the ear as she drank her poison.

She began having troubles going to the bathroom and stomach pain progressed. "You're right," she told him languidly, almost dropping her tea cup one morning, "I've even got a fever now."

"Shh, shh," he replied as he tucked her into bed, "just sleep it off now, you'll feel a bit better soon enough." And she was overtaken by drowsiness followed by fits of sleeplessness, which in her state she blamed on her irregular napping.

"I feel dreadful," she told him over the phone. It was getting hard for her to hold it up to her ear. She just felt so tired and shaky as of late, "but I'm sure to come around."

That evening, Molly Hooper fell terribly ill. She laid on the couch, stroking her cat gently with a limp wrist. The television droned softly, just barely covering up the soft click of his front door unlocking.

Death's footfalls were silent up the stairs and over her carpet.

Molly roused herself as her cat, Toby, laid back his ears. Even in her confused stupor she realized that she was no longer alone. "Who's there?" She mouthed, licking her lips and trying again. She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead and panted. "Who's that?"

"It's me," Jim cooed, crossing the room in leisurely stride, "oh, poor little Molly."

The cat hissed, the hair on his back standing straight on end and his tail poofing out to twice the normal size. Molly made no move to calm the cat down instead she had suddenly entered an entirely lucid state. "Jim," she breathed, lying perfectly still. "No, that's impossible."

If Jim hadn't known any better he had thought she stopped breathing. But he could see it there, her life, like an apple that's been bitten straight down to the core. Oh, with medical assistance she wouldn't even survive. Sebastian had been such a good, good boy. She was his finally. "I've come for you, Molly," he purred, running a hand over her suede couch. The cat fled, darting under the end table.

He slipped his hand down, down until the back of his hand stroked across her aguey brow. She pressed into the touch; it was no doubt chilly and pleasant. "Jim," she mouthed and blinked.

But as she opened her eyes, Jim had changed.

His face had begun to elongate, stretching out, his eye sockets tilting and bulging out like a bird's. His entire face had begun looking like that horrible Venetian mask--distorted so that it looked like a terrifying beak, but when he opened his mouth, his gleaming teeth gnashed and his long tongue flicked out to lick his now huge, pivoting eyes. His black eyes swiveled there, fixating on her, and the cat beneath the table let out a yowl.

When she blinked, it was gone, and so was Jim.

Soon after, Molly Hooper fell into a coma. It was several days before her body was discovered and when it was, they found a bandy, orange tabby cat laying next to her, looking perpetually frightened.


	3. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The average police officer lives nearly twelve years less than the average, that is, if they are not claimed by a long-standing familial disorder or the very violent crimes they combat. For Death, this is too long a wait.

Greg Lestrade is a man nearing fifty years old. He has lived a long, hard life--the life of a policeman and, furthermore, a detective inspector. He has gazed upon the results of violent crime more times than he could count and more times than most would guess. His hair is graying, a product of genetics, but mostly of stress.

The average lifespan of an adult male in the United Kingdom is aproximately seventy-seven years. Jim knows this as a fact. With modern medicine, lifespans are ever lengthening--those that who die from disease and age are becoming older and older. What medicine cannot cure is the effect of stressors on the body.

The average police officer lives nearly twelve years less than the average, that is, if they are not claimed by a long-standing familial disorder or the very violent crimes they combat.

 

For Death, this is too long a wait.

 

He waits nearly a year from the death of Molly Hooper to slink back into Sebastian Moran's tidy, clean little life. He seems to have gotten back on track. He holds a cute little job at a cute little bakery--Jim can tell, he's still got the flour on his elbows. He isn't an alcoholic, from the looks of it, not a single bottle except maybe some white wine for cooking. "You're looking quite better," Jim lisps from the threshold, slinking around the table and slipping into one of the chairs.

Sebastian freezes, still pouring hot tea. Some of it spills over and scalds his finger and he jerks. "Why are you here?" He asks weakly, putting down the kettle and moving to put his hand under the tap.

Jim smiles too widely and licks his lips. "Thought you might miss me a bit." Sebastian doesn't answer and he continues, "your life is boring without me, isn't it." It isn't a question, it's a statement. "I thought I'd make it interesting again."

Sebastian turns off the tap, toweling off his hands gingerly, nursing his fresh burn. It's not serious, just a little burn, it will blister later. "I don't want it to be interesting, honestly." He lies through his teeth, picking up his mug and turning around to face Jim.

They don't speak for a while. Sebastian merely leans against the countertop and stares off, growing paler by the minute. His vitality, considering, is impressive. Jim's eyes dart about and he sizes him up, flour-caked elbows and scuffed shoes and tiny, rough nails that circle a chipped mug.

"What did you do with all that money?"

Sebastian doesn't seem surprised he asks. "Put it all in savings." Sebastian sips and pauses, "Yes, well. I couldn't spend it, Jim. Doesn't feel right." He laughed to himself. "Preposterous, I know. If you were alive, I'm fairly certain you would do more than berate me."

Jim doesn't look angry, he simply drums his fingers on the table. His fingerprints are dark splotches on the composite material that sink in. "Did you save my suits then? My briefcase--"

Sebastian smiles over the rim of his mug. "Your wristwatch, your sheets, your cologne and shampoos." It's a surprisingly touching smile. Bitter. Jim can see it all, empty there. They say eyes are windows to the soul and they're absolutely right. "I burnt everything I could get away with. The rest is in totes, down the hall." He points, and Jim can see the minute tremble.

"Oh," Jim breathes, more of a gesture to continue than anything else. Or perhaps it was an invitation to hush. "Then the money has a value that--"

He cuts him off again, this time with tear filled eyes. "Yes."

Jim splays his hands out against the table and inspects his nails. "I may be dead, honey, but I am definitely still watching." He looks up, staring deep into Sebastian. "I think I get at least one deathwish as your--" He stops, lips twitching, "and at least another, as your employer."

Sebastian laughs, wiping away his tears with a curled knuckle. "That's cheating, you should only get one."

"Sebby, baby." Jim chastises, playfully as Death can possibly tease, "I'm sure there's something in the rulebook that says you have to make exceptions for Death." Sebastian nods an 'okay okay', gulping down another mouthful of hot tea. "First, you're going to help me get to Sherlock Holmes."

Sebastian rolls his eyes, "knew that was part of it."

Jim ignores him. "And second, you're going to use that money or so help me." He becomes a deadly quiet, "I will make sure all of the people you love die prematurely."

He spits his tea out at that, ejecting some from his nose in the process, and Jim leaves.

 

Unlike little Molly Hooper, Jim doesn't need help destroying Greg Lestrade. His life has begun that process for him.

 

Greg Lestrade has two teenaged daughters that Jim can't recall--nor does he care about--the names of and is edging on fifty years old. His daughters visit him sometimes, though you can tell that they’re growing more and more estranged. He is aging and they are young.

After the Fall, after Sherlock's Fall, he resigned from the police force. Resigned is a nice word, a pleasant word, for leaving just before being sacked--because that's what it essentially was, a move a save face. The next in line was Sally Donovan, a capable woman but perhaps not as seasoned as she should be for the task.

Sometimes, she too visits Greg Lestrade. She pities him and he knows it. He now works a minor position as a museum security guard at the Bank of England Museum. Instead of protecting a real bank, he protects a few bits of dead currency and watches as children run their greedy fingers over the gold bar exhibit.

Sometimes, Donovan goes to him for help on a case. Guidance and vision, because Lestrade has this uncanny way of usually seeing the truth. It's a policeman's gut. He's now getting an actual gut, now that he's off the police force. He doesn't have to run after criminals anymore or pass any inspections. Sometimes he has to warn someone not to touch an exhibit. Sometimes he has to piss in a cup.

He's taken up the drink, especially since the death of Molly Hooper. Jim blesses his good fortune that Greg seemed to have taken a liking to the doe-ish pathologist. The only way Donovan can get him to talk to her anymore is if she brings him a couple of beers. My, my, how far the great had fallen--it seems like if you trip up Sherlock Holmes the whole world is brought to its knees.

It is only a matter of time before Greg Lestrade, sick with depression, is soon sick with something much more fatal. He doesn't visit a doctor for it, just as he never went to therapy for the traumas of his job. He's the sort that declares bullet holes are flesh wounds whenever they're inflicted upon himself. Not that he'd say that about this, of course, he can't see it.

The liver weighs around three pounds and performs six major functions. The liver is responsible for making bile for digestion, storing glycogen, breaking down saturated fats (and producing cholesterol), and manufacturing blood proteins such as that for clotting, oxygen transport, and up-keeping the immune system. The last function, the one that ultimately will kill Greg Lestrade, is that of ridding the alcohol from his bloodstream.

His liver simply shuts down.

When it begins, it's sort of flu-like. In fact, it's startlingly similar to little Ms. Hooper's symptoms of lead poisoning in the beginning. She didn't know what hit her and neither did he. It slowly progresses, his thoughts become more muddled (his hands tremble when he reads the paper, his urea conversion is down). Fluids build up within his abdomen, causing swelling that presses against his organs. He loses his appetite and breath as he walks to work in the mornings.

At some point, Jim thinks, he must know that he's dying. He simply doesn't care.

His limbs are thin now, shriveled up and his stomach bulges grotesquely. He sometimes vomits up blood. Lestrade has what doctors would diagnose as 'Cirrhosis', but he doesn't go to any doctors. He is stubborn and hard-headed. Sometimes Donovan remarks on his stomach and he self-consciously looks in the mirror but that passes as soon as he consumes a bit more.

Jim slips into his house one auspicious Sunday evening. Sally Donovan is due to visit him in a few hours. The weather is pleasant, and for the next week there will be clear skies. It is lovely, lovely weather for a funeral.

Greg Lestrade's front door is unlocked when he arrives. The ruined, ex-detective inspector is sitting in an armchair when he enters the living room and Jim smoothly deposits himself on the couch until he is noticed.

 

It takes a bit of a nudge.

 

The picture on the television goes out a bit, the audio running and repeating on a few phrases. "And the weather this weekend," it drones, once, twice, the display flickering, "and the weather this weekend--" Lestrade presses the 'off' button on his remote and the screen goes black.

His eyes bulge at the reflection. Jim sits, legs crossed at the knee, on his sofa. "Hello, Greg."

"You." Greg answers, with no hesitation. He is lucid. He recognizes him immediately. Nearly everyone does when they're close to Death. It's only made more personal since he's already seen his face so many times ago. "You're dead."

Jim sighs, uncrossing his knees and leaning on them. He supports his head in his hand. "Is everyone going to exclaim that?" He smiles a bit too wide and Greg starts. "'But you're dead!'" he mocks, his voice too like Molly Hooper's to be humanly possible. "You know who I am." His tongue flicks out to lick his lips, extending low enough to brush his chin and high enough to touch the tip of his nose.

Lestrade blinks and turns away, his face going hard. "No, that's impossible."

Jim lets out a theatrical yawn, throwing himself down on the couch. "Oh god, how have you not been the victim of a violent crime yet? If I were around, I would have killed you out of sheer boredom, Lestrade, really, so obvi--"

Lestrade gives him a look that signals that he obviously understands who Jim is, exactly, and Jim stops mid-sentence. The corners of his mouth crack a bit at the next grin. "Ooh, look a clever cop. And here I thought you were just riding that snot-nosed Sherlock Holmes's coat-tails. Must have graduated at the very top of the police academy, very good, Greg, yes."

Greg snorts, "are you going to berate me or kill me? Because I'd greatly prefer that we get this over with, if it's the latter."

"Touchy," Jim tsks with too much tongue, sitting up and straightening his suit. "You don't want to know why I'm taking you? What I'm planning?" He stands, eyes darting like jarred flies.

"You're taking me," Lestrade retorts, "because I'm a dead man walking."

Jim gives a look of approval, a little satisfied frown and nod. "Well put." He steps over the stack of television guides and sensational magazines, and three days worth of the paper. "Look at you," he reaches out his hand and Lestrade takes it, "washed up old cop. They were right, you don't last long after you 'retire.'"

"Piss off." Lestrade growls.

Jim leans forward, a viscous red fluid pouring from his eye sockets and his teeth glinting. "Checkmate," he lilts, breath cold on Lestrade's cheeks. Greg flails weakly, drowning in the liquid, sputtering and gasping as though he's being forced underwater. Slowly, ever so slowly, Greg Lestrade drowns to death on the fluid collecting in his lungs. Jim lets go of his hand and presses his own tentatively on Lestrade's chest. His heart is still and the pressure forces a watery gurgle from his throat.

Sally Donovan arrives an hour and a half later. She is consoled by how peaceful Greg looks, sitting in his armchair. He looks relaxed and comfortable, at long last. The funeral brings the entire Yard and makes the newspaper. People mourn for a while and then Greg Lestrade fades from existence.

But someone Jim has been waiting for has taken notice.


	4. The Housekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes has taken a sure notice of the death of Greg Lestrade; there is no doubt about it. Perhaps he had even noticed when poor Molly Hooper had died.
> 
> It wasn't enough though, oh no. It would take a bit more for him to come out of hiding, just a few more gentle pushes.

It only ever took a few little gentle pushes.

Things are going to get much more complex after this one, though. Sherlock's housekeeper is an old woman who, in actuality, has been due to die for some time. However, she has a resilient spirit and fights off the advances of Death, not just medically, but through pure obstinacy. She is, as some would put it, "a tough old bird."

He walks to Baker Street, nothing more than another pedestrian on the pavement. To most, he knows that he would just look like another businessman. Only to those who had brushed with him in the past would be able to see the sickly, black dribble he left behind, the black smirches.

When he arrives at the flat, he expects Mrs. Hudson to put up a fight. She always has, after all. ‘221A,’ read a small brass plate and he moves to unlock the door.

He is stopped by the small, meek voice of an old, tired woman. "Wait a second, dearie. I'll get the door for you." If he had a heart it would be hammering nervously in his chest. No, not nervously, excitedly. There is the sound of springs and a slide of a chain, and the door opens.

Mrs. Hudson is a woman nearing eighty years old. It shows in her stance as she holds her hip, in the lines of experience and smile at her cheeks and under her eyes. It shows in the way that she recognizes him immediately, yet doesn't seem at all afraid. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he says mildly.

"Oh, yes," she smiles, and it lights up her face. She widens the gap by opening the door and gestures, "come in, make yourself at home."

He enters, eyes scanning the flat. Photos cover every major surface, the mantle, the tables, the walls. There is a overstuffed couch that sits before a television, and a chair--hers, he supposes, because there is a knitted, striped Afghan laying over the back. The flat is small, smaller than 221B, and quaint.

She closes the door and locks it behind him, purely out of habit. "A cuppa tea, dearie?" She asks, leaving him in the living room as she bustles vigorously into the kitchen.

It is odd, but when people are near dying--in the presence of Death--they become more alive. It is the last of their energy expending itself, wearing down like a wind-up doll. She seems not to notice the pain in her hip.

"No, thank you." Jim calls to her, because it's only polite, settling himself down on the couch.

She comes back in a few minutes with two cups and a plate of biscuits, and Jim cannot help but give a small smile. He wonders if this too is habit, making tea for people who won't take it.

"Now," she says, sitting down in her chair beside the couch, "that's a bit better." She pulls her Afghan down into her lap and covers up her legs. Her knees stick out like knobs and her hands tremble slightly. She gathers up her knitting and starts again. From the length of it, it seems to be a scarf. It is almost complete.

"You do know why I'm here, then." It's not a question, it never has to be. Especially not for her. Though her hospitality is odd, Jim is intrigued. His eyes dart around, staring at the pictures on the mantle. They are family members, friends, associates. There are as many pictures as years of her life, quite possibly. He can't help but be a tad bit surprised when he finds a picture of a much younger Sherlock Holmes.

"Of course," she pauses, holding her knitting needles in one hand, and takes a slow sip of tea. "You're here about my hip."

He flickers back to watch her, to really watch her layers peel away. Humans are so fragile, so delicate. Mrs. Hudson, despite her vitality, is no different. No amount of will can slow the slow tick of a genetic time-bomb. The process is nearly elegant in its inherent inelegant end. "Your heart, actually."

Her eyebrows lift a bit, not surprised but at the same time, she finds it unexpected. Probably because she could feel the hip wearing at her the whole time, unlike the nearly undetectable, ordinary disaster of congestive heart failure. "Runs in the family," she says, as if it's a particularly good piece of gossip, "I told Mrs. Turner that's what it would be."

She seems to find this a great triumph. "I told her, 'with all the commotion these boys make, it's a wonder I haven't dropped dead sooner.'" She nods sagely and her knitting needles click and clatter. "Of course, now I don't have near the noise. Or the smell," she pauses for another sip, "body parts in the fridge--have you ever heard of such horrible--" She cuts herself off, smiling a bit sadly.

"Does John still visit?" Jim shifts on the couch, uncrossing his legs to lean forward and feel his cup. It's still a bit on the hot side. Just because he doesn't have to eat or drink doesn't mean he won't or can't do it--it just can't be too warm or it will go down a bit funny.

"Oh yes," there's a smile in her voice and she watches him as he nibbles on a biscuit. There's a triumph there too. "He'll be here in a few hours," she sighs, "that's why I'm in such a hurry to finish this. It's for his son, Seamus. They visit me every Friday evening, right after Seamus gets out of school." She holds it up and measures it with her eye. "Few more rows. Let me finish this," she nods, meaning both the tea and her knitting, "and I'll be right with you."

"Oh?" Jim sips at his tea gingerly. It's an almost foreign taste to his mouth. "When did John marry?" He crosses his legs again, unable to get entirely comfortable on the couch. The movement of his thighs leaves scuffs like soot over the upholstery.

"Hasn't married her yet," Mrs. Hudson clucks, "they've been dating nearly a whole two years. Her name's Mary. They started dating just after," she pauses, and cuts off. Just after Sherlock died. "Mary's a very nice girl, perky, good sense of humour. She's a single mother." Nearly done with her tea, Mrs. Hudson resumes her task. "She doesn't seem to mind that John was so close to Sherlock, in fact, she doesn't ask any questions about it. Doesn't even cross her mind; you know how people talk. Mrs. Turner was sure my Sherlock was, well, with John." She seems a bit flustered, "well, she doesn't mind any of that and she shouldn't. He took Seamus in like he was one of his own."

Her voice gets steadily quieter, muted, as she tells him about John Watson's budding romance. "Met at Bart's; Seamus was one of his patients." The corners of her mouth lift at this, "he's lovely with children. He's a good storyteller." Her cup sits empty at her side.

Jim thinks, in a flash, of how dramatic it would have been to sever her ties mid-drink, her china crashing to the floor and tea pouring down her front, soaking her Afghan and dress beneath. It feels like a loss. What stories John Watson would have to tell of this.

In his mind's eye, he can see John Watson bursting through the door of 221A, shoulder first. He would be shouting for her, and telling Seamus to stand back.

He idly scratches at his nose, rubbing off some of the concealer and revealing his blue skin.

Her knitting needles click on for a bit longer, until she ties off. "There we are," she holds it up to show him. "I'll just leave this on the kitchen table for him."

When she stands, her hip gives her obvious trouble. She grasps at it and lets out a little gasp. Her vitality is running out, finally running down. Jim sets his cup down on the coffee table with a clatter. He stands, suddenly feeling a bit, well, wet. Thick ropes of viscous black cling to the couch where he was sitting.

It's becoming hard to not just soak the flat with his presence, especially as she wanes. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to stem the 'saliva' and stop the black from dribbling down his chin.

Mrs. Hudson straightens up a bit and places the scarf on the table, leaving a little note: "for Seamus." She then looks to Jim. Her eyes are entirely expectant.

"I'm not sure if I can make it back to my chair, dearie." She tells him, softly, leaning on one of the chairs. "Would you help me to my chair?"

Jim's feet leave pools like oil slick or ink beneath him as he enters the kitchen. She takes his hand, and it's cold. Her skin is growing colder as well. He leads her back into the living room and back to her chair.

She lowers herself down and smiles. "Thank you, you've been too kind."

Jim smiles, his mouth gaping a bit too wide. The lipstick concealing his purple lips cracks a bit. "I know." His eyes are black pits, the white pupils floating like life rafts.

"I have," Mrs. Hudson whispers, "one last wish, a Death Wish."

His smile disappears and he stiffens, her hand still in his. She grips it with a sudden surge of vitality and pulls him down. Her voice is coarse, rough against his ear. "Jim Moriarty, I am not afraid of you."

He tightens his grip against hers and hers only tightens further. "When you live as long as I have, you aren't afraid of Death."

"What do you want?" Jim hisses, his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. He's trapped, he can't pull away from her. This is her one last wish. Not very many people know that you can bargain with Death. It used to be that people received three Death Wishes but the rules were changed. Too many people were outsmarting Death.

"Don't you dare touch my John; don't you touch my John Watson."

He tenses and so does she. "You," he snarls, and the black trails down his chin. His teeth extend like that of a horrible dog's and his eyes cave into his skull. Jim stares into her eyes and it nearly unnerves him how unafraid she is--there are few who are so accepting. Few who are so triumphant. She sighs in response, a long sigh, and her heart simply stops beating. Jim lets go of her hand and it falls limp.

Jim straightens his suit, feeling inconvenienced beyond belief. She should have been killed, he should have had her shot—then he could inconvenience her. Violent crimes and accidents aren't handled by Death.

He didn't know where John Watson lived. He had been in Molly Hooper's flat before and had watched Lestrade's in the past. It's hard to find someone when you can't look them up online or hack into their bank accounts. Most people seem to have the notion that Death can find anyone (Jim did before he took the job), but it's not true. Death can only find those preordained to die—they let off little signatures, trails to follow. He can just follow the leak of their vitality. But perfectly healthy people, like John Watson, are completely invisible to him.

Lucky for him, Mrs. Hudson is old-fashioned. She doesn't use a mobile, she doesn't own a computer—oh she has something better, something he can really use. He slinked about the flat, lifting up piles of books until he found it. Oh yes, Mrs. Hudson, like every other older person, keeps an extensive address book. The floral print cover is ratty and it's nearly full, but many of the names are crossed out and small dates are written in the margins. Death dates. Oh, _oh_ so very meticulous. He couldn't use a computer or mobile without overloading it but paper, paper is a different substance. He can age it but he can't destroy it entirely.

He's thumbing through it when the doorbell rings. He stills, eyes flickering to the clock on the mantle. If he remembers correctly, this is around the time school should have let out. _He's here_ , he doesn't have to find him at all. He snaps the address book shut and throws it down on the table as Watson hammers on the front door. “Mrs. Hudson!” He finally shouts, hammering again. He pauses, “Mrs. Hudson?”

Jim lolls his head and shoves his hands in his pockets, just waiting for the phone to ring.

It does, as if on cue. No doubt he's checking up on her using his own mobile. Jim has half the mind to pick up the phone and give him a little message.

It rings for close to an eternity and stops. The hammering starts, “Mrs. Hudson?” Jim imagines he can hear the panic in his voice. His eyes dart around, knowing that within a few minutes John Watson will have broken into the flat.

_Where to hide, where to hide..._

He slips into the kitchen and spies the scarf on the table. Yes, that will do. There's the sound of John's shoulder smashing through the front door and his feet on the linoleum.

The flat is empty save for the sitting figure of Mrs. Hudson, who appears to be asleep in her armchair. Another pair of feet enters the kitchen, smaller—must be Seamus, John's son. “Stay back,” John tells him quietly, sternly.

John moves into the living room and checks her vitals and Seamus, who looks to be about seven years old, picks up a long, oily scarf from the kitchen table. He then loops it around his neck and stuffs the little note in his pocket. John comes back to the kitchen, the muscles in his neck twitching.

He calls it in. “Yes, yes. She was,” he clears his throat, “yes, 221A Baker Street.”

Seamus is at the age of barely comprehending. He's seen people dead on the telly, he's read stories and John has told him stories about people dying. It isn't quite the same. Jim's presence weighs heavily, around his neck and shoulders and about the flat. There is no doubt that John notices that. It is a calm disquiet.

They're sitting at the kitchen table, Seamus in John's lap, when the paramedics arrive. “Where's Mrs. Hudson, daddy?”

John pulls him in close, pressing his face into his jumper. He's gained weight since Sherlock. “Come here,” he says, a bit too late, shuddering. His hand strokes at the back of his head, and though he doesn't realize it his fingers are avoiding the fabric of the scarf about his neck. “Where did you get that?”

“It was on the table,” he squirms, muffled, “Mrs. Hudson made it for me.”

If Jim could, he would have smiled.


	5. The Iceman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is darkening. Most respectable Londoners would be indoors, doing whatever respectable Londoners do – telly, dinner, things Jim didn't care about. Mycroft Holmes, despite being a 'respectable Londoner,' rarely did the respectable thing

John glances through the rear-view mirror for the duration of the drive back to their house, keeping a close eye on his son. His discomfort is brought on by the presence of Death, but he doesn't know that, he just knows that an odd air of unease lingers in the air. It's trapped in the car with them, a miasma of Death. It's the same sort of lingering sensation found in nursing homes or hospitals, near the elderly dying.

Their house is remarkably larger than expected. John Watson has come into money, Jim notes as he is unwound from the young boy's neck. They enter the threshold. As soon as he can, he melts out of the woolen fabric, pooling on the floor, and slips under the door. Addresses change, addresses don't matter. He's left his mark, he'll find it later.

 

The day is darkening. Most respectable Londoners would be indoors, doing whatever respectable Londoners do – telly, dinner, things Jim didn't care about. Mycroft Holmes, despite being a 'respectable Londoner,' rarely did the respectable thing. He had a schedule that could be as frantic as his brother's, depending on the task at hand. There was one exception: bath was nearly always, with very few exceptions, at eight. It was the one time of day when he would be completely undisturbed.

Jim knows this because he had not only seen it, but because in their quid-pro-quo 'conversation,' Mycroft had given him more details about his own life than his brother's. While it was frustrating that Mycroft would so blatantly lie to him, it was useful information nonetheless. And it wasn't as if he had given him whole truths in response, anyway.

While Mycroft Holmes steeped in his porcelain tub, Jim worms himself through the rattling window panes. He seeps in, dripping along the wall, knowing full well that he has already been detected, though the Holmes made no actual indication of it. That was just the thing, theatrics; they were both rather fond of the drama of it all.

His hand shoots up to the towel rack that hung on the wall, a thin tendril of slime, to pull himself upright and back into his more handsome Jim-form. "Hello gorgeous," he lisps as soon as his mouth has properly formed, "thought you said your brother had a soft-spot for an evening soak."

Mycroft gives him a simpering smile, "I thought you said you didn't have a 'live-in.'" He says the term delicately, plucking at it like a picky vulture.

Jim grins broadly and fetches a footstool in the corner – decidedly not Mycroft's; a man his height wouldn't need it. He pulls it up to the side of the claw-footed tub and settles down on it, weightlessly. "Found him, did you?"

Mycroft frowns, "I prefer not to talk business in the bath."

"Oh yes, that's right, but you could definitely talk business while I was being 'bathed;' that's called a 'double standard' and I know you're a politician, honey, but you could at least try to be a little civil." Jim teases, letting his hand run over the lip of the tub. It's not as if he himself doesn't hold a few of those.

Mycroft gives a shiver as the porcelain turns cold under his hand and spreads to his side. "Since you want business," he forces himself to stop shivering; Jim can see him tense beneath the water. It's amazing, what his eyes can do now. One can focus on his face and the other on something else, like a chameleon or something equally strange. "Why, exactly, are you here? You're clearly not living."

"Oh no, let's not talk about me. I'm tired of you asking questions about me. You did that last time," he cocks his head, "maybe you're getting dumb, spending all your time around ordinary people. Come on, love. Oh, you know why I'm here."

Jim is rewarded by a stare that makes him feel pinned to the stool. "Then it was you, with Gregory. Who has made you Death, James? There's an application process and –"

"A gentleman," Jim lolls his head, right eye darting to watch the door, "never kisses and tells."

There is movement, a signature not unlike a heat signature emanates – someone young, healthy with deep reservoirs of vitality – through the wall.

 

There comes a single knock.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Jim looks to him and wriggles his plucked brows suggestively.

"Yes, yes." He looks to Jim, wondering if she can hear him. "I'm merely thinking aloud; I'm fine."

The footsteps fade but Jim waits until the presence of the strong vitality fades. "She's younger than you and healthier; a bodyguard, not a lover."

Mycroft gives no comment.

 

The footstool had been sitting in the corner, unused, actually a tad bit dusty. Jim doesn't bother to mention that. "Who is this footstool for then?" It dawns on him and his eyes slide shut and he gives him a cheeky smile, "oh, and lucky me. The Iceman's been out to thaw."

Mycroft fixes him with yet another penetrating stare. "If you're not here to kill me, then what are you here for? Here to make my bath water a bit chilly?"

"Oh," Jim huffs, "you always assume it's about you. You never matter, Mycroft – you never did." His eyes follow the bend of Mycroft's knee, his finger dipping into the water, "you're going to tell me where your brother is," he looks up, "and you're not going to lie to me."

The older man looks down his nose as though Death were a repulsive, lesser thing. "What makes you think I will tell you anything, James?"

"Oh, I have my ways," his voice pitches lower and lower until it's a dulcet baritone, "I didn't know you were so sick, Mycroft, you should have told me." Jim speaks in a voice too close to Sherlock Holmes' to be natural.

Mycroft appears nonplussed and it's honestly a bit offensive.

"It must have been something from father's side," he continues, in that same smoky voice. His face warps as he speaks, elongating and narrowing, the bones shifting. His cheekbones lift and push out, eyes spreading out, eyebrows thickening. His hair grows out, suddenly curly. "How long have you been hiding this from me, My?"

His pulse has raised significantly, his eyes widening. "You," Mycroft says softly, "no, you can't."

The not-Sherlock fixes him with a stare and with a splash his hand falls into the bath. "Mycroft," he rumbles, and the skin melts from his hand into the water as though he is being degloved.

Mycroft is frozen in place and appears calm; Jim can see how fast his heart is going. His vitals betray him just as Jim's black eyes betray himself.

The skin of his face rots and falls off into the bath as he leans closer, the stool scooting across the floor. The tissue plops into the bath and Mycroft has the sensation that the water is getting colder with each bit. It's taken on a red colour now. "Because of you, this is happening," he tells him, inching, closing, "because of you I'm dead."

When Mycroft blinks, Jim is sitting, intact, upon the stool and giving him a dazzling smile. The bath water turns from red to an inky black, then fades like invisible ink. He shudders, not sure that it’s from the cold.

"How long?"

Jim scratches at the corner of his mouth and looks at his finger. The rest of the lipstick hiding his lips must have worn off when he liquefied to fill John's son's scarf. "Depends," he says, somewhat bored, "a few months, give or take."

"Was I due to die of this eventually?"

Jim stands and gives Mycroft the once-over. His body is worn out, struggles with weight and other minute problems – they cloud his vision all at once. "Doesn't matter, you're going to die of it now."

He swallows. "Yes, very generous to have some time."

Death wishes he could get away with just ripping him to shreds. The repercussions of Mycroft Holmes' death would send shock-waves through the entire system. Not only would he get a Holmes brother out of the way, he'd topple an entire empire in the process. Wouldn't be bad for a day's work. Oh, oh it's so tempting.

"Yes, well," Jim grins, all teeth, "I'd say I'm a just and generous man." He smoothes his suit and slides his hands into his pockets with satisfaction.

The most intimidating thing about Mycroft is that once he has you in his gaze, he doesn't let you go. For having been told he's going to die soon, he's unnervingly calm. "How?"

He picks up the stool and puts it back in its place, noiselessly dusting off his hands. "Hmm, well," he trails off, his feet slapping soundlessly against the tile floor.

He has nothing to fear in his current state of being. He could tell him, honestly. The way things were going, no one was stopping him at all. He never did like being completely obvious though.

Jim considers not telling him at all. That's not dramatic though, no, that's not something a Holmes would appreciate.

He stops at the bathroom door. "The same way you entered it, Mr. Holmes." He pauses for effect, letting him ponder that, and spine bending a bit too much, he turns to smile. "Shrieking."

Death leaves the Holmes residence, leaving no evidence of his having been save unnaturally cold bath water and a sense of disquiet.

 

The disquiet soon descends upon Sebastian Moran as well.

So far, all of Jim Moriarty's plan has played out incredibly well – the only bump in the road is the fact that he can't touch John Watson. John Watson isn't even entirely necessary, per se, he's just a loose end. Jim doesn't like untidy ends; they have a tendency of fraying and, if left unchecked, can unravel everything. But he does owe Sherlock; for not keeping his promise, now everyone he holds dear will be taken from him.

Jim Moriarty is nothing if not meticulous.

Sebastian Moran has had a change in residence since his last visit. However, due to prolonged exposure, Death has left his mark upon him. He's easy to track, an oddball in the spectrum of vitality. He could track him down from miles away, maybe even across the sea. Thankfully, he hasn't moved too far.

Though he too has moved up in the world.

He zeroes in on a large house, more like an estate. It's lovely, and it damn well better be for how much money is going into it. He enters the house one day while Sebastian is out, simply to get a good look at it.

What he finds incites a cold anger in him.

Two pairs of shoes are just in the threshold, under a bench in the mudroom. One is a pair of thick-soled boots and the other are a pair of black ballet flats. In the kitchen, a thin silk scarf, resembling a keffiyeh, lies discarded on the island counter-top.

There is a woman in Sebastian Moran's life.

Jim perches in one of the chairs, waiting for Sebastian to arrive.

Their car – expensive, sounds Mercedes – pulls up in the driveway and he can hear their laughter. She has a breathless sort of giggle, his is a low chuckle, like growling. The front door unlocks with a bit of fumbling and the sound of plastic bags. They're back from the grocery.

Sebastian pauses as he crosses the threshold of the kitchen, eyes falling upon Jim. She bustles past him, oblivious of Jim's presence. She's in perfect health, oh, beyond perfect health. Her vitality is off the charts. Sebastian's is abnormally high as well.

Sebastian visibly swallows and looks away, watching the short, dark haired and olive skinned woman walk about the kitchen. She sets the groceries on the counter, still caught up in their conversation about something boring and mundane.

"She can't see me," Jim tells him in a matter-of-fact tone as he looks down at his nails, "can't hear me. She's never seen anyone die, never met Death on the right terms."

Sebastian's eyes flicker back to him for a moment before he goes to help her with the groceries. "What do you want to eat tonight?" he murmurs to her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss in behind her ear.

They prepare dinner together, something involving beef and carrots. Jim finds it uninteresting, unable to really smell the food. He can sense the once-vitality of the meat though he knows the body of the animal housed no soul of particular interest. Not a soul he'd deal with, anyway.

They're in love, Jim realizes, watching them. She has him wrapped around her finger.

"Do you want to watch a movie after this?" She asks him, after they're done eating. She starts to wash the dishes in the sink despite the presence of a dishwasher and Jim further narrows his eyes.

"Yeah, just," he leans on the counter and looks directly at Jim over his wineglass, "I want to go for a walk for a bit," she looks up, interested, "oh, alone." He pats the breast pocket of his shirt as if to indicate he needs a smoke.

"Oh, all right." She turns off the tap and towels her hands. "You're going to have to quit soon; I'll get them while you're sleeping and flush them," she mocks flushing a toilet.

"Oh come on," he holds up his hands defensively, "this is the first today!"

She winds up the towel and whips it at his thigh playfully. "Go on then, go kill yourself a little."

Sebastian laughs and it seems as if only Jim can hear the nervousness in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a while! Uni and everything. In my free time I drew up a soundtrack and made some album art for this because I am a vain bastard. Here it is: http://pretty-grimm-ones-too.tumblr.com/post/19152918658/the-long-shadow-of-death-1-so-youre-gonna


	6. The Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John marvels that he never really had to explain it to Seamus, he just knew. He guesses that's how things work though; death is a natural thing that comes to all people regardless of who they are, everyone is going to die. The thought of that makes him hold Seamus's hand a bit tighter when they cross the street.

They leave the house together, Jim noiselessly and Sebastian with the crinkling of his cigarette pack. He keeps walking, down the driveway, past the black Mercedes, and into the more densely wooded grounds of the estate.

When they arrive at a small clearing, a place that looked to be an old meat-house--long since burnt down and cleared away; Sebastian stops and pulls out his lighter. "You picked an odd time to visit, Jim."

Jim wanders about; there is a vitality that lingers in the woods that he can't quite identify. Animals, but not animals. Birds chirp in the trees above, and he can sense the presence of several deer. "You're spending the money more freely now," Jim's eyes follow the motion of his hands as he cups the lighter and takes a drag.

"Hmm, yeah. You told me to?" There's a question in his voice and it comes out in a smoky exhale. Jim's pupils dance to follow the smoke.

The sun is going down and it's starting to get cold – honestly, a bit more cold than Sebastian is accustomed to for the season. He shivers in his button down but makes no move to roll down the sleeves.

He also makes no move to hide the long, ugly mark that trails from elbow to mid-inner forearm. Sebastian seems to know that he's looking, even though he's watching the toes of his shoes. "Been to see a doctor about it."

"Oh?" Jim asks, not daring to get closer, but curious.

"More than _a_ doctor, actually. _Doctors_. Been to see loads of them about it." He looks up, "they don't know what it is." There is something like fear or doubt in his voice and a very much unspoken blame.

Jim slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, watching for his reaction. "What do you think it is?"

Sebastian looks away, shivering again. He sniffles, "I don't know."

"Do you know why I'm here, at least?"

He looks up at that, "Yes."

"You still have your rifle. I need you to hunt down John Watson, love."

"No. I'm not going to help you."

Jim levels him with a stare. "What do you mean 'no'? You listen to me, Moran –" He suddenly stops mid-sentence and disquiet bleeds into the woods. The birds become silent. Moran's pulse jumps in response. "Why?" He doesn't give him time to respond, "Hooper."

He doesn't dare turn away from Jim. "It's not just that Jim," he swallows, "god, I've finally got the past behind me – don't you understand?"

Jim narrows his eyes, quickly descending into a cold fury.

"I've settled down, Jim. I'm," he pauses, licking his lips and taking another drag, "I'm going to be engaged soon." He looks to his feet again, "We talked about it on the way home. We love each other, Jim. She's lovely, god, you've seen her. I want to marry her."

The extra vitality, it makes sense; couples share a pool of vitality, extending the life of the two but making the other vulnerable, should something happen. Sebastian's health has been largely restored because of this shared sentiment.

Something heavy and nameless descends upon the clearing and Sebastian starts to back away on impulse. His cigarette goes out, despite its full cherry.

"I leave you for no more than a year," Jim starts, his voice nothing more than a whisper. Sebastian drops his cigarette, hands shaking. "And you've already entered a relationship; you've already set yourself out against me?" Sebastian claps his hands over his ears as though it will stop the sound that is snaking into his skull. "Traitor," Jim hisses while Sebastian writhes; the sound pierces directly into him.

"How long did we spend together, work together? How many hours, endless hours, did we spend in each other's company?"

"I have my own life, Jim!" He all but shouts over the sound. Black rivulets trail from his nose in the start of a nose bleed. "I have," he coughs, hacking up the smoke he pulled into his lungs just minutes ago. It stains his lips. "I have a family! God, Jim," his eyes roll back into his head and he sinks to his knees, "don't take that away from me, please."

Sebastian Moran already had so much taken away from him. On the rooftop of Bart's, Jim had taken perhaps the most valuable thing away from him. Himself.

"Why should I? It didn't bother you to poison your girlfriend, did it?" Tears stream from Sebastian Moran's eyes.

"Yes," he sobs softly, "yes, it did. God," he coughs again, long whooping sounds.

It's funny how even the least religious men beseech God when in terrible agony.

"You gave me a promise, Sebastian Moran," he snarls, "you're going to help me get to Sherlock Holmes or I will destroy you. I will leave you be until your firstborn son is born and I will sit by his cradle until he withers and dies. I will make your wife infertile. I will make you age. Your very soul will be marked by me and you will never escape me, no matter how far you flee. I will find you."

Sebastian let out another impotent sob and cradled his head in his hands, "I will," he pants, "help you kill Sherlock Holmes. But, not John Watson. We never agreed to that."

Jim slowly edged off of him. He hadn't considered having Sebastian kill Sherlock. He had planned to just have him kill himself, whether in recklessness or depression. That would require the death of John Watson, otherwise Watson would step in and stop him from destroying himself.

Obviously, Sebastian believed that Jim's 'death wish' – which is non-applicable when it is one mortal to another, or in their circumstance, a wish of Death to a mortal – was an obligation.

"I want to be there," Jim tells him softly, "when you kill him."

Sebastian sniffles, tears still running down his face. His shirt is stained with black – not red, not a normal nosebleed – that does not clot. He wipes his face with his ruined shirt, the black smearing over the fabric. It mixes with the substance he coughed up, which leaves brown streaks like nicotine. "After I kill Sherlock Holmes, will you let me be? Will you let my family be in peace, please?" He begins to cry again, "please?"

"Yes," Jim answers boredly, "of course." Sebastian cleans up to the best of his ability and he sits in silence in the darkening woods.

Death leaves him there – he has miles to travel to reach his next stop.

 

\---

 

The first time John Watson sees something physically wrong with his son is when he walks in on him bathing. Seamus roars with laughter and pulls the curtain shut on his bathtub, but just before he can get it closed, John spies a long, black streak that wraps around the bottom of his cervical vertebrae.

He thinks, for a moment, that maybe it was a trick of the lighting, but resolves that he should take a look at it after he gets out of the bath.

"Does it hurt you any?" John asks, helping him pull his shirt on afterwards. It looked like an ink splotch. The texture of his skin is unchanged, in fact, it reminds him of the mornings when he wakes up on the couch and Seamus has drawn all over his arms with children's markers. Except this mark didn't wash off.

Seamus wriggles to get his arms through the arm-holes, "No!" He keeps making eyes at the sliding glass door. It's a warm day outside and it's a struggle to keep him inside – but it's whatever tires him out, honestly. As long as he sleeps well, eats well, John is happy.

"Are you sure?" He asks again, softly yet firmly. He's had one too many young patients lie to their parents that they don't hurt – and it was especially common, in John's experience, in young boys – only to get very sick. It wasn't uncommon for a sore throat, for example, to go completely undetected until it was full-blown tonsillitis.

 

\---

 

"Seamus, tell daddy what you told me, about your imaginary friend." Mary says over dinner, looking to John with a bit of concern.

John looks to Seamus expectantly; he's preoccupied with twirling his fork into his spaghetti. "You have an imaginary friend?" He asks him, coaxingly, "What does he look like, Seamus?"

Seamus bashfully ducks his head, "He's not imaginary, he's real."

"Well," John says, eyes flickering back to Mary as he scoops up his sauce and dips his bread into it, "tell us about your friend. What's their name?" He takes a bite and Seamus slurps at his noodles.

Seamus seems to think for a moment then replies, "Jake, his name is Jake."

John visibly softens and so does Mary. If he's thinking about it, chances are he really is imaginary. Children these days – you have to be careful, what with all the horror stories on the news. Children being abducted and all sorts of nasty things. It didn't occur to him that it happened all the time, every day it seemed like some kid was in trouble. It's something John never really considered until he had one of his own. It made him cautious but he didn't mind.

"Oh, what does he look like?" John asks, now nonchalant.

Seamus ignores him and tears the crust off his bread. "He likes to play dinosaurs with me," he smiles broadly, a tooth missing and several loose. "I like the T-Rex, daddy, and," he makes a sound like a film explosion, "did you know all the dinosaurs were killed by a giant asteroid?" He looks excited and John smiles, "Jake likes to play as the asteroid."

John chuckles and the matter is dropped.

"I guess I overreacted a bit," Mary murmurs into his neck once they're in bed, "I just get so worried. Well, you know," she reaches for his hand and they knit fingers.

 

\---

 

Seamus has a full schedule that's hard to keep up with sometimes. Up early for school, a full day, come home, have a bite, then football. Seamus tells John and Mary that he wants to be a professional player. He has practice every Monday and Wednesday and a game on nearly every other Saturday. Every Friday they visit Mrs. Hudson – they still do, just now they visit her grave.

John marvels that he never really had to explain it to Seamus, he just knew. He guesses that's how things work though; death is a natural thing that comes to all people regardless of who they are, everyone is going to die. The thought of that makes him hold Seamus's hand a bit tighter when they cross the street.

The black spot on Seamus's neck doesn't lighten up, in fact, it looks like it's spreading. Seamus still claims that it gives him no pain, but the skin is cold and clammy to the touch. It makes the hairs on John's neck stand on end, but he ignores the sensation. They take him to a pediatrician who remains just as stumped as John.

 

\---

 

Seamus likes to ride with him when he goes to the grocery. He sits in the back seat, the scarf Mrs. Hudson made for him wrapped around his neck tightly, and never stops talking. "Did you know when stars get old they explode?"

"Oh?" John asks, pulling into the parking lot and parking. He can't help but smile when he looks back into the rearview mirror, but something is off.

"The big ones burn up and then," he smashes his hands together, "then, then they get bigger and bigger. Then the inside falls apart and they explode!" He makes his film sound effects, "Jake says really big stars with big insides become black holes."

"Does he now?" John laughs, "Do you think that will happen to the sun?"

It's Seamus's turn to laugh, "Jake says people who think that are dumb, the sun is too small to make a black hole."

John opens the car door and helps Seamus out. "Are you sure you don't want to be a," he waves his hand in the air, trying to think of a word that Seamus will understand, "a – person that studies the stars?"

Seamus streaks across the parking lot screaming, "No! I want to be an astronaut!"

They spend the evening pretending they are on Mars and when they return home, John tells Mary the story and they can't help but be impressed by his intelligence.

 

\---

 

Seamus is finally able to convince them to get a dog. John has to admit that he's always wanted one, so the only issue was selling the idea to Mary. They pick out a droopy-faced bulldog from the pet store and Seamus spends hours romping with him on the floor. They name him Gladstone, and he's marvelous.

 

\---

 

Seamus loses all his passion for sport one morning. It's very sudden. “Jake thinks I should be a scientist,” he says over a bowl of breakfast. It's a sleepy Sunday morning and John is reading the paper. Mary is recuperating from her long shift at the office. Since they've gotten together, John acts as a stay at home dad while she holds a full time job. Well, honestly, they both hold full time jobs. Just one is more rewarding.

“What do you think?” John flips the page because this article is rubbish. He curls his toes around in Gladstone's copious skin and the dog simply lies there, enjoying the attention like a pile of warm oatmeal. They've tried everything to keep him from begging but he's awfully spoiled.

“I think Jake is smart.” Seamus is done with his cereal and is now picking up spoonfuls of it and dribbling it down. “He thinks your books are good.”

John pauses for a moment, and not because of the two page spread. “Jake thinks my books are good.” He says, wonderingly, “Has Jake read my books?” He hides the alarm that his son would be reading crime novels – his crime novels. He had started writing them as a source of income after Sherlock had died. At first they weren't too terribly popular, but then they became sensational. He had changed a few names and a few details and taken a pen-name, and thank god.

“Of course,” Seamus sounds almost wounded, “Jake doesn't lie to me.”

John gets an odd sensation in his stomach that he has trouble identifying.

 

\---

 

The death of Mycroft Holmes is marked in the obituaries section, just like any other human being. It hits John hard, despite him having no real emotional attachments to him. He used to drop in, have a cup of tea. He wasn't really interested in him so much as interested in his safety. John always got the sensation that it was more out of obligation that he showed up. Or pity.  Now both of the Holmes brothers were gone, which was odd considering such a great portion of his life was devoted to them. Or at least it felt that way.

He has a funeral with the pomp of a government official, and it's odd that he's dead, it really is, considering how young he was and everything. John can't say he looked healthy in the end. No amount of make-up could disguise the excessive amounts of weight he lost in his final days. In his thinness, he resembles his brother even more – and that is something John can’t bear.

This is yet another death that he doesn't have to explain to Seamus. Seamus merely grips three of his thick fingers in his own small hand as they walk from the casket down the aisle. “Don't worry, daddy,” Seamus says to him softly, “Jake says he's not in pain anymore.”

Despite his tearless eyes, John Watson is undone.

 

\---

 

When Sherlock visits John for the first time after his Fall, the result is nearly expected. John's fist hurtles through the air like a pop-fly and strikes Sherlock. He goes down with a split brow and John stands over him, looking shocked and angry. He balls his fists and lets out a long sob – contained for how long now? Then he offers him his hand. "You massive idiot, you absolute _cunt_." He grinds out, "Get up so I can patch you up."

They sit in the kitchen, Sherlock nursing a cup of tea and John nursing Sherlock's split brow. “Didn't see you at the funeral.” John comments, dabbing at the bloodied place. Seamus sits at the other end of the table, peering over the edge. “You didn't go to your own brother's funeral?”

Sherlock doesn't give him an answer but watches the boy. “So this is your son Mycroft told me about?” Seamus ducks bashfully, “Must be absolutely peachy, being a father.” His biting sarcasm is entirely too welcome.

“Yes, well,” John gets up, and washes his hands. “I've had a bit of practice, with you.”

 

\---

 

It takes both Mary and John to coax Seamus into attending football practice. “I just can't understand,” Mary tells him, “He was so excited about this! Two months ago, he would have told anyone and everyone who would listen that he was going to be a professional player. Now? We can't even get him out of the room.”

John holds up his hands defensively, “When I was his age, I had no idea what I wanted to do. Hell, sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing.” He pulls her in close and presses his lips to her brow, “We just have to accept that he's going to end up as restless as I was.”

And, John thinks to himself, pray that he doesn't end up invading countries and following around consulting detectives, even if that's all in good fun.

 

\---

 

Seamus now spends all of his time in his room when he's not at school. Naturally, it's become a wreck. There are books on every surface and toys, toys everywhere. John finds that the worst things to step on are the olive-green army men. He's tidying up when he decides to make his bed.

Underneath the pillow he finds a book that makes the blood drain from his face. He drops it into the bed and covers his face, breathing quickly and shallowly.

The title reads: _Grimm's Fairy Tales_.

That night, Gladstone breaks his first rule since he's been housetrained. He sneaks into Seamus's room while they're eating dinner – John can't fathom why he would abandon the table scraps – and attempts to chew his way or claw his way through the door to his closet.

It makes the hairs on John's neck stand on end, but when he opens the door he finds it empty. On further inspection, it seems that Seamus left a candy bar in his jacket pocket and it had melted. John figures Gladstone smelled the sweets, the gluttonous dog.

 

\---

 

John Watson is awakened by the frantic sound of his wife, “John, get up!” She's in a panic. She shouts for him and there's a commotion in Seamus's room. He wakes up immediately, fueled by a sudden jolt of adrenaline.

When he gets to the room – still rubbing the sand from his eyes – Seamus lies jerking on the bed, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Mary had thrown the lamp and the pile of books from the bedside table. Seamus had just had a seizure.

He helps her roll him onto his left side, “How long?”

“I don't know,” she's crying, dabbing at her eyes, “When I came in to tell him good morning and to have a good day, just...he just started doing this as I was leaving.”

John runs to the bathroom to check the clock. He estimates that he couldn't have been seizing for longer than three minutes. When he returns to the room, Mary has the cordless phone and she's calling an ambulance anyway.

 

\---

 

The doctors are unable to identify the cause of Seamus's seizure and they keep him overnight. Mary takes off from her job to keep an eye on him when John simply can't anymore. He's exhausted. Sherlock has been oddly distant since he came back from the dead and it worries him. Everything worries him.

When Seamus returns, he looks less healthy than before. He's pale and thinner, shakier. They pull him from the football program. He's too sick to return to school for the time being, instead, John takes it upon himself to keep him up to date.

One night, when he's tucking him into bed, he finds a drawing on his bedside table. “Who's this?” He asks, smiling, “Is this us?” He points to the childish figures on the paper. Seamus has drawn John in a red pullover and Mary in her pastel sun dress. There is a figure off to the right, a man in what looks like a white suit. “Who's that?” He points, and Seamus takes the paper from him.

“That's Jake,” Seamus smiles and holds his knobby knees, “He dresses fancy, like the men on the telly.”

John's breath quickens, “How old is Jake?”

“I don't know.” Seamus doesn't seem perturbed by this fact and yawns. “Are you going to tell me a story, like Jake does?”

John suppresses a shudder, “what kind of story?”

Seamus picks out a book on the shelf and John feels relief that it's not a Grimm fairy tale.

 

\---

 

John wakes up to Gladstone's whining. It is early; the clock reads something like three. John has to squint because his eyesight is beginning to suffer. It must be all the long hours staring at a backlight monitor. “What's wrong, boy?” He dips his hand down off the edge of the bed and Gladstone nuzzles it up and whines.

He slowly gets out of bed, groggy, and shuffles after the dog who – despite needing out – seems to be going far too slowly. The dog doesn't make its way downstairs, instead it leads him to Seamus's room. John is too tired to really notice until he sees him.

Seamus has a torch and is sitting up in bed, holding a copy of that damn book in his hands. Beside him, and it must be an illusion – a shadow cast, something like that – sits a man in a suit. The logical portion of John Watson's brain tells him that shadows don't wear white.

The man John believes he's hallucinating looks up, lips still moving, winks, and disappears.

John stands in absolute silence and Seamus looks up, guilty.

“What are you doing?” John finally chokes out.

"I'm sorry,” Seamus shuts the book and puts it under his pillow, “I'll go back to bed, I'm sorry.” He turns off the torch and hides away under the blankets.

“It's all right,” he slowly enters the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, heart pounding. “Come here.” He pulls down the blankets and pushes the curly brown hair back from Seamus's brow. “You should be sleeping,” he kisses his brow softly, still shaken, “Good night, and no more reading.”

John shakily returns back to the bed and finds he can't sleep, despite the slowly breathing form of his girlfriend, and soon to be wife, beside him. John reaches his hand down and strokes the top of Gladstone's head.

Gladstone huffs.

 

\---

 

They have a quiet wedding, just a small gathering to sign the papers instead of an actual ceremony. John doesn’t mind and he knows an actual dress-and-cake wedding would probably bring up bad memories of the past with Mary. She’s gorgeous in her sundress; it’s white with patterns of sunflowers outlined in black. This detail stands out in John Watson’s mind as he thinks back upon it several weeks later. Seamus had asked why they didn’t have a “proper wedding” and she had just sadly smiled and kissed him on the head before she left for the office.

John has been sitting beside Seamus’ bed, an ancient laptop propped up on his knees while he bangs out the next chapter of the next installment of his detective series. It’s become more of a cops and robbers sort of thing as of late, as he’s running out of material. He spent a lot of time with Sherlock but there are only so many stories he could tell people about him, at least willingly.

Sherlock read the books with a sort of veiled satisfaction. Of course he would, the gloating bastard. He was also fond of – in a sort of disguised way – Seamus, though he’d never openly admit it. Seamus was, for all intents and purposes, a captive audience. It was a struggle to make him leave the room when Sherlock was around. Not that it was a problem.

Something, something John doesn’t quite name or want to name, makes him nervous about Seamus’ room. It was cheery, with bright primary colours and it was well-lit, considering the size of it. A room that is full of dinosaurs, soldier action figures, and children’s science books shouldn’t make him feel so uneasy.  There is something upsetting about the room, though, and his gut tells him to stay away. It harkens back to Afghanistan, the feeling of ‘go away’ when his company would cross streams and roads without cover. It was dangerous and made something slick coil in his gut.

But he has to stay. After that night, John doesn’t trust Seamus alone in his room. He ignores his feelings of discomfort and stays in the room, right beside him.

 

\---

 

Despite John’s presence, Seamus’s condition grows worse. More troubling, doctors are unable to pinpoint the cause. They move him from his room to a hospital bed. They need to monitor the progression of his illness.

John stays by his side almost constantly. Mary makes him go home for a few days, taking turns staying with him, and then they swap out again. John gets the sensation that if he stays by Seamus he can ward off whatever it is that grips Seamus.

Late one evening, John gets up to use the restroom located within the single room (it had cost a lot but they were well off enough that they would spare no expense for their son). When he comes back to the bedside, there is a figure waiting for him in the chair opposite him.

John can’t see him outright, no; it is oddly too murky, like looking through a haze of smoke. He narrows his eyes, wondering if the lighting is playing a trick on him. The man, whom he now assumes is ‘Jake,’ is just beyond his vision. He vaguely wonders if he is hallucinating. He hasn’t been sleeping properly. Even though he’s used to stress and the sounds of the hospital, he isn’t used to this. His hair is streaked with gray – it had gone from dishwater to salt-and-pepper fairly quickly.

The oxygen regulator let out its little gasps and Seamus’s chest rose and fell. John realizes he’s been holding breath. “Jake?” He lets it out, huffing, and the figure – John’s eyes went wide – shifts in his seat.

“Oh, honey,” the figure whispers, in a voice too familiar, “Surely you haven’t figured it out just now.”

John goes stock still, the muscles in his neck knotting and those in his jaw twitching. “Moriarty.” Indeed, at that, the fog over his eyes seems to clear and he is able to see him for what he is: Death. John has met Death before, exactly twice prior.

When he was younger, his sister had crashed her car. She swerved to miss a coney that leapt in front of their car and slammed into the guard rail. The car rolled, crushing in the top and injuring them both – John with a minor concussion and his sister with something much worse. Death had appeared to them then, to him, specifically. He was comforting, a police officer. He had told John that Harry wasn’t going to make it.

That had been a damn lie.

Then, he had met Death again, this time as a woman. He had dragged himself through the sand, his shoulder bloody and mangled, into nothing more than a hut. While taking cover and bleeding out, a woman in a long chadri appeared to him. Her eyes were holes, empty sockets, and that was all he could see of her. She pointed a long bony finger at his shoulder and he fell into a feverish sleep. Afterwards he didn’t know if it was a dream or real, but he could say that it was an odd touch that the police officer from his childhood and the woman in Afghanistan should have the same voice.

Jim’s eyes disappear into his skull, instead showing up as dots of white. They roll along the rims like marbles. “Are you here to tell me my son is going to die?” John clenches his fist on his knee, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

John Watson is a man who had seen the vitality of man defy Death.

“No and yes,” Jim cocks his head, his pupils rolling down to watch him.

The resolve and vitality of the war veteran are far higher than Jim had originally thought. Seamus stirs in his bed and reaches, blindly, for a hand to grab. John is quick to take it, his hand large enough that he can encase his son’s bony hand in his own. “He’s going to make it,” John tells Jim thickly.

Jim smiles, “Oh, you think so?”

John grunts in response, his other fist still balled as though if Jim were to try anything, he would punch him to Hell. “Leave,” he grits out, his chest puffed out broad. Jim can see the threads linking him to his son. They’re strong – very strong. He loves him very dearly. “Get out of here.”

He laughs, tongue slapping the roof of his mouth wetly. “Because I’m just going to leave you be? Johnny-boy, I’ve been around a while and you weren’t able to stop me. What makes you think you’ll stop me now?”

Watson swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, “We’re going to stop you.” He nods, “The both of us, Seamus and I.” His thumb runs coaxing circles over the back of Seamus’s hand. “He’s a Watson, after all, and a Watson soldiers on.”

Death shrugs and stands, rolling his shoulders. “If you say so, Johnny.” He makes a move to stroke the length of Seamus’s blanket-clad leg and John lets out a snarl that rivals Gladstone’s. “Touchy,” Jim snatches his hand back, grinning, “Oh well, it can’t be helped.” Jim flutters his lashes, “I’ll see you later, honey; I’ll get you yet.”

At that, Jim dissipates and a chill falls heavily upon the room.

 

\---

 

Two days later, Seamus falls into a coma. His vitals plunge and the doctors have to forcibly expel John Watson from the hospital room. They frenetically work but are unable to stop the unknown disease that had gripped him. At three in the morning on a fine summer’s day, Seamus Watson’s brain ceases to function.

John is the first to know, before the doctors, even. It is a feeling unlike any he had in the past. It is as though something has been severed. He knows, with great certainty, that his son has succumbed to his illness. He sinks into his chair in the hall, feeling a great burden upon him, pressing him deep into the cheaply padded seat.

He finally lets out a stuttering sob, pinching the bridge of his nose. It is only after he regains his composure that he calls Mary, who had returned to the office. His hands shake, “Yes,” John tells her softly, “Don’t worry, love.” His voice cracks, “He’s not in pain anymore.”

John Watson is undone.

 

\---

 

He sits at the kitchen table, not touching his toast and tea. It has gone cold. Gladstone snuffles at his feet. The dog hasn’t left his side since the funeral. It seems that it’s dawned on the poor thing that Seamus isn’t to return. The house is so empty now.

John cannot bear to enter Seamus’s – rather, what was once Seamus’s – room.

When he had come home from the hospital, he was in a daze. It reminded him of when Sherlock had ‘died.’ There was so much stuff left, so many things still lying around. When he swept the kitchen, he knocked out a couple of olive-green plastic army men from under the dishwasher. When he vacuumed the living room, there was the inevitable crunch of Legos. His drawings still hung on the fridge. There were bits of Seamus scattered throughout the house, still waiting to be found and waiting to remind John of an emptiness that would never be filled.

The front door jiggles and John knows that it’s Sherlock but he can’t be bothered to unlock the door. Sherlock still hasn’t learned how to knock. It takes him less than a minute to pick the lock and enter.

Sherlock’s footsteps are light but fill the house. It is so empty here.

“John?” Sherlock asks in his dulcet voice, more of a statement than a question. He enters the kitchen and stands awkwardly, or it would be awkward for anyone but Sherlock.

“No,” John answers tenuously, “not this time, Sherlock.” Gladstone huffs next to his leg and the heat of his breath upon his ankle makes goose-flesh rise along his arms.

“John?” Sherlock asks again, and John can read nothing but a superficial pity and indignity at being refused.

John hides behind his hand, pinching his nose and wiping at his eyes with the intent of making it look like he’s not crying. “No, Sherlock,” his voice is thick, “I can’t.”

Sherlock stands in a silence that seems to be non-comprehending.

“He was my _son_ ,” he clears his throat, “ _God_ , Sherlock! Give me some,” he hides behind his hand again, “time, Sherlock. I _can’t_.” His hands shake, “Leave, please,” he looks up, “Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock leaves the Watson residence without his blogger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, sorry this took so long to write. It's rather long and a lot of character development to go through, and I wanted to do it justice. Many thanks to HolmesianDeduction because he catches all the stupid verb problems I make (among other things).


End file.
